Playlists
by Tori Stone
Summary: The awkward moment when your best friend is unconscious and you discover the really weird music on her phone...


**Okay so originally I planned on this one-shot to be serious. It started that way.**

**But then it went the complete opposite direction.**

**I really have no idea what possessed me to write the ending the way I wrote it, but...yeah. Idk.**

**I hope you guys like this, because I'm not 100% sold on it yet. Hmph.**

**I don't own anything you recognize.**

**Hope you guys enjoy.**

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**Playlists**

**January 15, 2013**

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The doctors say she was lucky. To escape such a heavy and brutal attack, with nothing more than a concussion and a few scrapes and bruises, is incredible. They say it's a miracle she didn't get more seriously injured.

I beg to differ.

I was there. I was with her.

I was the one that let her fall.

I'm the reason she's in this hospital bed, completely unconscious, oblivious to the world around her. At least, oblivious at the moment.

There's gonna be hell to pay when she wakes up.

But until then, she sleeps in blissful oblivion.

And I do everything I can to sink into the anonymity that Fenton brings while I can. I slump in the chair by her bed, shove my headphones into my ears as deeply as they will go, and I press play. I spend hours every day there at her side, watching her chest rise and fall delicately as she breathes, and blast my music. It pushes me to the furthest boundaries of angst, but it's all I have at the moment. Without the ridiculously blaring music, I'm left to my thoughts. And they are terrifying.

When I close my eyes, I see her falling again, her face creased in alarm, but confidence shining deep in her amethyst eyes. Confidence that her slender frame would land easily in my arms, the way it always had before. Confidence that she would look up and see me smirking at her, teasing her with a look that suggested far more than I am willing to admit. Confidence that we would traipse out together, ghost threats detained, chatting about dinner plans.

Instead, I got to watch as that confidence flickered to shock and fear as my fingertips just barely brushed her right arm as she rushed past me in the air. I got to watch that fear blossom into sheer terror as she realized what was about to happen. And I got to watch that terror get extinguished in the blink of an eye as her head bounced off the smooth concrete floor of the warehouse we were in.

I got to carry her limp, lifeless form to the hospital. I got to call Tucker and explain what happened.

And now, I get to wait.

All of the belongings that she had with her that night are stacked neatly on the counter on the opposite side of the room, tucked neatly between the wall and the sink. Morbid curiosity encourages me almost daily to rifle through it all, not that there's much there, but I refrain. It's the least I can do after putting her here in the first place. Her phone stopped ringing after the second day, after the news spread. A few people filtered through, to "visit" her lifeless body, but none are as permanent as I am. Her grandmother comes close, Tucker right after her, but I am here from the moment visitation hours start until they kick me out at night. I've yet to miss a day.

It is the fifth day when, finally, my curiosity becomes overwhelming and a stand. My knees creak and protest the movement, but I ignore them. I almost tiptoe to the counter, my eyes on the sleek black screen of her comatose phone. I've played with it before, but only when Sam was there. Watching carefully. I'm pretty good about not trespassing on private information. Reading through texts bores me, especially hers. She rarely texts, and when she does, it's always to either me or Tucker, and it's always either school- or ghost-hunting-related.

That's not what I want to explore.

I take my seat at her side, and unlock her phone. There is no password; she finds them cumbersome. My fingers fly over the touch screen, and within moments, I'm browsing her pictures. It's nothing particularly artistic; a sunset here, a mountain there. I find several pictures of Parisian monuments, and I try to reach back in my memories to recall Sam ever mentioning going to France. Nothing comes to mind.

There are a few pictures of me and Tucker individually, two of the both of us, and then one of all three of us together. I remember that moment vividly: Tucker and I were in the middle of a battle to the death in Mario Kart, when Sam casually flung herself down on top of us and snapped a picture. She laughed for nearly half an hour after that.

I chuckle a little at the disgruntled expression on my face in the picture. I glance up from Sam's face in the picture to her sleeping face before me. There is no color in her face now, especially compared to the rosy glow of her cheeks in the picture. I swallow hard.

Banishing the stabs of guilt twisting my stomach into knots, I quickly shut out the picture gallery and return to her home screen. Her music player application seems to be staring directly into my soul.

She was two minutes and thirty-seven seconds into a song called A Mess It Grows by a band called He Is We. Without thinking about it much, I reach into my pocket and unplug my headphones from my iPhone. I didn't even know her phone had a music playing app; she doesn't have an iPhone, opting for some kind of LG phone T-Mobile put out. It's not a bad phone, really, but Tucker and I like to make fun of her for it. She doesn't ever seem to mind.

I plug my headphones into the jack on her phone and press play.

What I hear surprises me.

Her iPod and laptop are loaded with exactly the type of music you would expect her to listen to. Breaking Benjamin, Panic! At The Disco, Nine Inch Nails, you get the picture. That's what I've come to expect from her. Not particularly my type of music, thought I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy a few songs she's shown me in the past. But collectively, no thank you.

What greeted me on her phone was a pleasant acoustic guitar and piano duet, murmuring quietly beneath a duet of female voices. My jaw falls slack as I continue listening. This song is unlike anything I've ever known her to listen to, and yet, there it is. On her phone.

I try to think of a pliable reason for her having this song on her phone, but none come to mind. For the first time since arriving at the hospital, I stare at her motionless form with more than nauseating guilt.

I let the song finish, hardly able to wait for the next to start. The screen flashed over to a new song, Amsterdam by Imagine Dragons. I suck in a breath.

I showed her this band.

She claimed she did not like them, muttering with an air of disdain that it was not "real music." _Ha!_ I think, smirking down at her sleeping form. _Not real music my ass!_

I skip on to the next song, unable to wipe the smug grin off my face. It's a Panic! At The Disco song, her absolute favorite. The Ballad of Mona Lisa. She listens to it at least four times a day. Skip.

When the next song starts, I actually laugh out loud. _Blame it On The Boogie? Michael Jackson? Are you serious?_ I snort into my shoulder and skip to the next song.

Yet another Imagine Dragons song: Bleeding Out. I wonder if she downloaded their entire album. Skip.

As much as I want to be shocked at the fact that Sam listens to P!nk, I'm really not. Especially this song. Blow Me. That's her typical attitude toward the vast majority of the population on Earth. I smirk. Skip.

Yet another Panic! At The Disco song, Build God, Then We'll Talk. I roll my eyes. One of the darker songs she adores. Skip.

The next two absolutely shock me. Carry On by fun. and Chicken Fried by Zac Brown Band. I've never known Sam to stray from her genre of hard rock and angst, and yet, here's a chart topping pop song and a nauseatingly twangy country song. I'm actually starting to wonder if I know Sam at all at this point.

The next one makes me pause. There are no instruments, just clapping and a strange popping noise. The song is called Cups. I think that's probably what the popping noise is. The singer's voice is thick, almost haunting. I don't recognize the band, LuLu and the Lampshades, but the song is vaguely familiar. I linger on it for a moment, before skipping on to the next.

Demons by Imagine Dragons makes me smile. It's my favorite song of theirs, and the fact that she has it on her phone, because of me, makes me happy. I linger. Skip.

Again, I try to be surprised about Swedish House Mafia being on her phone, but the song is really one of their best, and it fits her. Don't You Worry Child. Part of me wonders if this is the song she listens to when she's scared. Skip.

Every Night by Imagine Dragons. Skip.

God is a DJ by P!nk. Skip.

Haunt You Every Day by Weezer. Linger, for obvious reasons. Skip.

Hear Me by Imagine Dragons. Skip.

Heartlines by Florence and the Machine. Linger, because the drums are hypnotizing. Skip.

It's Time by Imagine Dragons. Grin. Skip.

Lights by Ellie Goulding. Just as I'm about to skip to the next song, though, something catches my attention. There is a strange echoing quality to the song, not one I hear in the original version. I hover over the skip button, listening intently as a techno beat starts to pick up, electronic chord progressions building in the background. And then, from nowhere, and explosion in the music, and the song suddenly becomes dubstep.

_Sam. Hates. Dubstep._ So, naturally, I let this one play out until the end, reaching the conclusion that it is one of the best dubstep songs I have ever heard.

All of my attention is now on this music player. I feel as if I have discovered some hidden part of her soul, and I refuse to let anything draw my attention away from exploring.

Lose Yourself by Eminem. Linger. Skip.

Next Year by Two Door Cinema Club. Grin. Yet another song I played for her, that she claimed to not like. Skip.

On Top of the World by Imagine Dragons. Skip.

Perfect Situation by Weezer. Linger. Skip.

Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. Linger just long enough to hear the bass drop. Skip.

The next one nearly makes me drop her phone. The unmistakable sounds of the Safety Dance are currently thumping through the headphones and I nearly choke on my own spit as I laugh out loud. _So Sam's actually I giant dork_, I think. I'm grinning so hard my face hurts, but I can't seem to help it. Never in a million years would I guess that Sam voluntarily listens to Safety Dance. I snort one more time, before skipping to the next song.

Tiptoe by Imagine Dragons. Skip.

Turning Tables by Adele. Linger. Skip.

Underdog by Imagine Dragons. Skip.

The music player seemed to automatically loop back to the beginning of her songs, because just as I thought I reached the end of the line, The Proclaimers quickly declared their desire to be the man who wakes up next to me. I laugh again, loudly and appreciatively. Skip.

And I was right back to where I started, at the He Is We song. I paused it and pulled my headphones out of my ears, grinning at the phone like an idiot. At least now I know why she watches me and Tucker so closely when one of us has her phone. She doesn't want us to discover her dirty little secret.

_Aw, Sam, you couldn't keep this from me forever, you know!_ I think as I wind my headphones back up and tuck them into my pocket. The music player app is still pulled up, the title of the song flashing across the screen in irritation for being paused. I pick it back up and shake my head at it in disbelief.

"Did you enjoy the show?" A hoarse voice croaks from my left. I jump and nearly drop her phone at the sound of her voice. I catch it, though, and bring it up to my chest to clutch my suddenly thundering heart. She is staring at me through half-lidded eyes, her dry, cracked lips pulled up in a half-smile.

"You're awake!" I nearly shout, lunging forward and taking her hand in mine. Her smile is fading, though, her eyes on her phone, still clutched in my hand.

"What were you doing with my phone?" She whispers, gaze flickering between my face and the device.

"Nothing," I lie soothingly, brushing her hair away from her face. She chews the inside of her cheek in disbelief.

"You didn't look through the music, did you?" She asked, her face creased in worry.

"No," I shrug. The worry evaporates from her face, replaced by that half-smile. "Listen, I'm glad you're awake. I just...I wanted to apologize for what happened, I feel terrible for not catch-"

"Don't," She interrupted, waving a slender hand. "It's not a big deal. Accidents happen. I'm not mad or upset or anything like that."

For once, I don't even try to argue. I just smile, raise her hand to my face and kiss her knuckles lightly, before slumping back in my seat and sighing in relief. She giggles weakly.

We're quiet for a moment, before an evil thought forms in my brain. With a wicked grin, I start to whistle the tune of Safety Dance.

I can see her freeze from the corner of my eye. I keep on whistling, ignoring the urge to smile.

"What are you whistling?" She whispers.

"A song." I answer. I keep whistling, smoothly changing over to the tune of 500. She gasps.

"You _did_ listen to my music!" She cries hoarsely.

"Sam! Relax! We don't have to talk about it! We could _dance_ if you want to! We could leave your friends behind!"

"I hate you!"

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**Updates for Wide Awake coming soon, for those of you who are interested. Keep an eye on it.**

**Thanks for reading!**

**- Tori**


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